by Daniel Wyatt
“I can’t keep track of ’em,” Wheeler said. “Scott. McClellan. Burnside. Hooker.”
They laughed together. Neither had any respect for the Union field leadership so far in the war. Whoever was running the Army of the Potomac was not their concern. Dealing in war contraband and profits were.
“So, what’s the word on the fighting? Are we going to be able to keep our line open for a while?”
Wheeler paused. “I think so. Just heard from a good source. Robert E. Lee’s sent scouts into Maryland. So this side of Virginia should be safe for now.”
“Maryland! Lee’s going to try it again, is he? An invasion of the North.”
“Oh, yeah. Looks like ’er. Washington is right scared this time, believe me. They are real scared.”
“So, what do you got for me, Wheeler?”
“Beef. Pork. Colt revolvers. Fresh bandages.”
“Just dandy.”
“Any trouble coming down?”
Jacoby shook his head. “No. Not with the new set of passes. How about you?”
“Nothing. I’m with Baker. I’m just glad we’re back in business and the rail lines are free again with the armies out of our way. I don’t think we could have lasted much longer. Too much dissension amongst our... investors.”
Jacoby nodded in agreement. “Same with us. The barge pilots are getting a little greedy, though. Any more trouble from them and I might consider rail all the way.”
“They’re your problem,” Wheeler grunted. “Just keep them in check. We don’t want anybody or anything to break the line now that it’s finally freed up.”
“I’ll look after it.” Jacoby turned and waved to a man behind him, off the bridge. “Let’s tally up,” he said back to Wheeler, “I’ve got my own people in Wilmington anxiously waiting for this stuff.”
“I bet yuh do, Jacoby boy.”
Chapter thirteen
Outside Wilmington — June 1863
The long letter from her husband was unlike any previous letter Marie had received from him. She had been expecting something like this sooner or later. Still, it upset her. It wasn’t so much what Luke said in the letter that bothered Marie. It was what he didn’t say. She had known her husband long enough to sense that although he was pleased with the Chancellorsville victory, even he now saw the Cause in serious jeopardy.
He stated that not only could the Yankee army replace its casualties quickly, it was actually increasing in size every time they met. The Union was recruiting foreigners from Canada, France, England, Germany, and other European countries. Too many of the South’s youngsters, the heart of the nation, were dying or going home minus a leg or arm. Their replacements weren’t coming in fast enough, if it all. The South just didn’t have the manpower. The Yankees had more modern weapons that were manufactured in the North, with matching ammunition. They didn’t have to rely on the imported guns from Europe that the South was so dependent on. The Northern boys were better fed and better clothed. They were healthier and stronger. And the Union cavalry had a weapon called a Spencer repeater rifle which, according to Luke, could be loaded on Sunday and fired all week.
Marie folded the letter and looked to Luke’s framed portrait over the fireplace mantle. The letter was no great shock to her. In fact, she was glad her husband had finally admitted it. How long would it take the others, including the bull-headed people around her in Wilmington?
Damn it all, the South was going to lose the war!
She thought of the people she knew. Even families in her social order, including Luke’s parents, were now finding it difficult to survive with the current prices of everyday items. Inflation had hit the poorest families first in the summer of the first year of war, closely followed by the middle class. Some women and young girls, she had learned, were forced into prostitution just to survive and make ends meet. The economy was collapsing. What was left in Marie’s bank account was slowly decreasing due to the devalued currency — one hundred dollars Confederate was worth only six dollars in gold.
How much longer would she and Luke be able to keep this house on this sprawling property, a mile north of town, with the fine silver and crystal displayed in expensive sideboards? How much longer would the Persian rug be under their feet? There were reports of uprisings in the South. In Richmond, stores had been looted by bitter women, incensed at the soaring domestic prices of goods. President Davis himself ordered the crowd to disperse or they would be fired on. He was successful and the crowd went their way, but the event left a sour taste in the mouths of the participants. She wondered if such an uprising could occur in Wilmington, and what would be the consequences if it did. Wilmington would be ripe for it. Soon. Very soon.
The war was bringing change faster than most people realized. It was believed in the South that women were put on this earth to do little else than look pretty, make their husbands happy, devote all their energies to domestic tasks at hand, and in her own case to make her husband look more important than he really was. Southern women were to smile, arrange parties, make love to their important husbands when called upon, produce the children, and to leave the talk of politics to the men. Marie always knew what was expected of her. It was so shallow.
Marie didn’t want to think about such things any more. It was too depressing. She knew the cure for temporarily ridding herself of these worries. She changed into her riding dress and gear, and darted out the rear door for the sanctity of her stable. She flipped her sun hat off, straddled her horse, and rode like the wind through the long, open field beyond the trees. After an hour, she switched to the side-saddle position, the approved style for decent Southern women, and steered in the direction of the stable.
She had the horse in a controlled trot around the smokehouse, when she saw a tall man in an open carriage by the paddock. He jumped to the ground, holding his hat in his hand. She rode closer and straightened her back, squeezing her heels into the horse. “Whoa. Good girl, Lavender.” She took off her gloves, and patted the dark-brown mare on the neck. “Why, Captain Denning. This is a pleasant surprise. How very nice to see you.”
“Mrs. Keating.” He smiled up at her. “May I help you down, madam?”
She hesitated, then flirtatiously cocked her head. “Oui, monsieur.”
He reached out for her. She was amazed at the gentleness with which the solid, handsome captain gripped her waist and brought her down in one graceful motion.
“I have what you asked for.”
“Really? Oh, the cloth?”
Denning smiled. “Yes. Courtesy of the blockade.” She followed him over to the carriage. “It’s all here.” He slid back a tarp to show her yards of cotton blankets, all gray, piled to the top of the side planks. “The best English quality. Heavy and thick.”
“Yes. It surely is.” She plunged her hands into the pile to feel some of the material in her tanned hands. “Magnifique. Merci. Thank you, so much.” Then she realized how she appeared and tried to tuck some strands of hair under her sun hat. The inside band felt damp with perspiration. “I’m sorry. You didn’t really catch me at my best.” She mopped her brow. “Hot, oui?”
“Yes, it is hot. So, you’re a rider. You seem comfortable in the saddle.”
“My papa put me on my first horse when I was five. I’ve been riding ever since.”
“Five. Good age to learn.” Denning drew closer to the shiny, well-groomed horse and stroked her on the shoulder. “Fine looking Morgan you got here. She’s slimmer than most I’ve seen, almost like an Arabian. Does she have any Arabian blood?”
Marie nodded. “Yes, she does.”
“A little taller too. A good jumper, I would venture to say.”
She felt at ease with Denning. “You know your horses, monsieur.”
He glanced back at her. “I was raised in Virginia. You know what they say. How many Virginians can’t ride?” he grinned.
“Touché. My husband agrees. He says that Virginian cavalry units are the best riders in Lee’s army.”
“He was not on the list,” she sighed. “He wrote me after the battle at Chancellorsville.” She didn’t see a wedding ring on his finger. He was too good looking a man to be a bachelor. “Has anyone heard about Jackson?”
“He died, I’m afraid. Pneumonia.”
“He’ll be a great loss to the Confederate hopes,” she said.
“I would think so.”
A stable hand appeared and took the reins from Marie. She and Denning walked to the shade of the stable wall.
“Our hopes are running out, oui?” she said, leaning her back on a paddock post. “I’ve heard people say that one firm Rebel victory on Northern soil might bring England and France to our side. If that’s the case, loans could be obtained on Southern securities. Then, perhaps, a European fleet could be established to reopen Southern ports to ship our cotton abroad. Could any of this be true?”
“It’s possible,” Denning answered, caught off guard by her topic of conversation. “We’ll have to see what happens now that it’s rumored Lee is on the move.”
“A second invasion?”
Denning nodded. “My father’s last letter confirmed it. When Lee pulled out of Chancellorsville, he headed north. Not south. I wonder if it’ll work this time.”
“This time?”
“The battle at Sharpsburg didn’t budge Europe to recognize Southern independence, as the South had hoped it might.”
“But Sharpsburg wasn’t a clear-cut victory,” she countered. “Lee had retreated. And Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation didn’t help. It made us appear as if we were fighting for slavery.”
“True. But aren’t we, in fact, though very few want to admit it?”
“That might be the case,” she acknowledged.
Marie regarded Denning with amusement and wondered what he was thinking. He probably hadn’t carried on too many political discussions with Southern women.
“This time, Lee’s destination is either Maryland or even Pennsylvania,” Denning continued. “However, if England and France enter the war on the Confederate side, they would most certainly be supporting slavery, whether they wanted to or not. I don’t think they are prepared to take that chance. They might recognize the Confederate States, that’s all, and continue to purchase our cotton as long as it’s advantageous to them.”
“And while this goes on, the English and French send troops over to fight for the North.”
“Then you’ve been hearing the same things I have. What hypocrisy.” He paused. “I spent the first year and a half of the war overseas in Europe, then some time in Canada. Nova Scotia. I learned a few things from people. Do you know there are thousands of Canadians fighting in the Union Army for Lincoln, while their relatives and friends back home are selling their goods to the Confederacy where they get more money for them? Munitions, hospital supplies, medicines, saltpeter — you name it. Does any foreign country send their boys to fight for us in the South? Not on your life. But they are sure there with their hands out. There’s money to be made in war, Madam Keating.”
“Oui.” She agreed with Denning. “I hear the North is growing quickly with European immigrants coming in and moving west. Despite the war, America is still the land of opportunity.”
“To the North, anyway.” Denning smiled. “You seem to have a good insight into the political scene,” he finally said. “You should be a politician. You make more sense than they do.”
“You are a gentleman, monsieur. It does one good to study politics, regardless of gender. No?”
“Yes.”
She considered his suggestion. “But a woman politician, born in France. Who’d listen?”
“If the South had leaders like you, they wouldn’t be in the mess they’re in now.”
“Thank you again,” she said, flushing.
“The South has to change. You, madam, are one of the few people in Wilmington who I sense is smart enough to see it, as well as admit it.”
She gave a quick nod of confirmation. They were of like views.
“The survival of slavery and cotton — that’s what this war is all about,” Denning said. “Independence is secondary. The South has hung onto its archaic institution of slavery for too long. It’s hurting the same businesses they’re trying to establish.”
“What do you mean?” She slanted her head to one side, frowning.
Denning collected his thoughts. “Slavery has prevented the Confederacy from developing a class of skilled workers, which the North now has and has been developing for years. I saw it with my own eyes even before the war. At this very moment men are employed in Northern factories manufacturing guns, powder, bullets, cannons, and wagons by the thousands while the South has to import such hardware through the blockade, which is getting tougher by the month. After only one year of the war, the North practically stopped buying any munitions abroad. They didn’t need to because their own manufacturers can make them everything they want. The North is booming right now — a technological empire.”
Marie nodded her head. Luke had seen the Union weaponry at the front, and now Denning had confirmed it.
“Northern farmers are producing grain like never before,” he went on. “A great portion of their wheat and flour is shipped to Great Britain, the same Great Britain buying up our cotton and pretending to be our ally. It’s a farce. The South has rejected the industrial revolution for a hundred years and is now faced with a war where the same industrial revolution embraced by the North will be the deciding factor. The North has everything in its power to win, all the resources, except field leadership and a series of hard victories. And Europe is merely waiting to see who gains the upper hand. The South or the North.”
“And it doesn’t appear bright for the South, I must say,” Marie said, Luke’s letter coming to mind.
“No, it doesn’t. And I think we both know it.” He sighed, changing the subject. “Madam, your accent” — he smiled at her — “is so French but yet your English is excellent.”
“My papa thought it best that I learn English. I believe it was about the same time he put me on a horse.”
“Ah, I see. A smart man. Tell me, what made you ever settle in America?”
She told him the details, including her marriage to Luke Keating.
“Your father was getting you ready for America, then. An arranged marriage?” Denning joked.
“By your tone, I take it you don’t approve of such unions.”
“So it was arranged, then. It’s not necessarily that, although arranged marriages are brutal.”
“Brutal!” exclaimed Marie.
“It’s... well, it’s marriage in general, I guess.”
“Oh, good Lord. What do you have against marriage?”
“I have my reasons. It’s a good institution for some individuals. Some marry for convenience more so than love, however. I, for one, could never marry for convenience, which most marriages are.”
“And what’s wrong with marrying for convenience sake, monsieur?”
“Nothing, I suppose. Providing a person gets what he or she wants from it.”
Marie fell silent. They walked across the yard to the shade of the back porch veranda. A long flowerbed spread out from that side of the house. The fragrance of the plants filled the porch.
A black female servant brought them some French spirits on a large tray. They sat down, and Denning accepted some wine in a crystal glass.
“Mrs. Keating, aren’t you worried about your reputation? You’re a married women. What if someone should see us? What if your servants should talk?” He leaned forward in his chair.
“What am I doing wrong?” She shrugged her shoulders, a glass of cherry brandy in her hand. She appreciated the company. “Besides, monsieur, I’m not too well liked as it is. So, what difference does it make?”
“In town, they call you the Gypsy woman.”
“Oh, do they?�
� She laughed. “What else are they saying about me?”
He lowered his eyes, and looking straight at her said, “That you’re a Union spy.”
She laughed harder. “Is that one still going around? Do you believe it?”
“No, I don’t. Besides, I’m in somewhat ill repute myself. If you know what I mean?”
“Oui. One of those nasty blockade skippers.” She deepened her voice. “The scourge of the South! I hear the stories.” She rested her head against the back of the chair. Her face was serious. She gently moved her glass back and forth, watching the rich liquid catch the light. “Tell me one thing, captain. Are you happy blockade running?”
“I’m doing my best,” he answered her, looking surprised that she would ask such a question. “It’s a business.”
“Then I take it you are not happy. Are you?”
His eyes penetrated hers. “This is war, madam. Few are happy in a war, regardless of what they do. For me, it sure beats being a chicken farmer in Virginia, like my father is. And it beats fighting for Lee. How about you? Are you happy in your arranged marriage?”
An awkward pause set in. She looked away and chose not to answer at first.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you that. Did I insult you?”
“No,” she snapped. “It’s the war. I never see my husband. That’s what makes it difficult.”
Denning backed off. “I can understand that, of course.” He downed the last of his wine and stood up. Flipping the cover of his gold pocket watch, he took note of the time. “Thank you for your company, the chat and the wine. I should get back into town.”
She came to her feet. “I’m sure you are busy.”
“Yes. I must deliver the blankets to your office, and I have to make ready for this evening’s auction. This has been one interesting afternoon. And I’m serious — you should go into politics. You have the knowledge for it. If you do, I’ll be your running mate.” He smiled and tipped his hat. “If not, you could always make a good spy.”
He made her laugh once more. “Oh, go on,” she said, glad they were parting in good humor.
